Draw a dot at the top of a page of a clean, bright white sheet of paper. The imaginary line across the width of the page will be your horizon. The dot is called the vanishing point. All of your subsequent scratches and scrawls on the page will be aligned with that dot, each line naturally drawn toward it because that point is the nexus; it can shape and connect everything around it.

Now, do you get the picture? She was my vanishing point. My boys grew up straight and tall, aligned with her mark on the world. At times, she was a carefree child of the sixties; others stiff-lipped in the face of tragedy. Her unwavering compassion taught them to treat those in need kindly, while her example inspired them to hold themselves to the highest standards. From how they treat strangers to how they pursue their dreams, her influence remains woven into the fabric of their lives.

Her friends still tell me that whenever they see something unusual, just plain stupid or downright hilarious, they think of picking up the phone or writing her a note to share it with her because they know it would hit the mark. In life, they would have been rewarded with peals of laughter and equally ridiculous sightings or stories in response. Now, they feel the bittersweet pull of those moments, mourning the silence that remains. Her mark on this world is like that vanishing point, a constant and unyielding presence that aligned and shaped everything around it, giving life its depth and giving me perspective.

Although it is no longer visible to the naked eye, it still guides the direction my footsteps take and the lines I scribble or scrawl in this chapter of my life.